


The Things We Stow Away

by Eikaron



Series: The Things We Remember [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bittersweet, Dark, History, Holocaust, M/M, Memories, Sad, Shoah, World War II, light beginning taking a dark turn, rated T only because its a heavy topic there is nothing graphic, remembering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-24 00:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18158849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eikaron/pseuds/Eikaron
Summary: Moving alway means unpacking boxes. Not all of them are physical.





	The Things We Stow Away

"Almost done", said Crowley, satisfied, and vanished the now-empty book crate with a casual hand gesture.

After the two had spent the better part of a weekend unpacking countless boxes and furnishing1 their new home, he was more than ready to call it a day. They were almost done anyway. All that that was left now was a tattered cardboard box which had already piqued Crowley's curiosity half an hour ago, when it had turned up under a slightly less-tattered cardboard box filled with various kitschy knick-knacks and questionable reading choices.2

"What's in this one?", he asked.

It couldn't be any more books, of that he was sure. Aziraphale's considerable collection had come in perfectly-sized, miraculously climate controlled and, above all, _sturdy_ crates without exception. This on the other hand was the kind of box containing Christmas ornaments, old photos or perhaps Grandma's wedding dress. It looked like it had been handed down through at least two or three generations, none of which had ever bothered to look through the contents (half of which were probably broken anyway) and Crowley had the distinct impression that if you picked it up the wrong way it would fall apart and shower you with a disgusting mixture of dust mites, glitter and small unidentifiable particles.

"Er. I have no idea, actually", said Aziraphale. "It was in a corner in the basement. I didn't feel like going through it, so I just took the whole box."

Crowley raised his eyebrow and gave Aziraphale a certain Look before he strolled over to the mystery box, bent down and ripped off the tape sealing it shut. A small cloud of dust rose, causing them both to cough.

"Good grief, angel. You – egh – you could have at least – echrgh – miracled the dust away", Crowley managed to get out between hacks. He was having sudden flashbacks to when the two of them had been to the bookshop for the first time after over twenty years of travelling. His throat and nostrils had been equally assaulted then because Aziraphale had forgotten to properly seal it. After a few tries they had been able to rid the shop of most of the accrued dirt, but this box had clearly been collecting for a lot longer than twenty years.

"I'm", the angel sneezed violently, "terribly sorry, my dear." He sneezed again and hastily made a hand gesture to clean both crate and content before his nostrils gave in a third time.3

"Well, let's see what we've got", said Crowley, after he had recovered (more or less) and crouched down to open it.

As far as he could see it was mostly junk, or perhaps memorabilia. It was sometimes hard to tell the difference. Crowley pulled out a little bird figurine with a crest of several long feathers protruding from its head. One of them was broken off. The bird was a yellowish white, although in the right light splotches of faded black, red and ochre colour could still be recognised on its tail and beak.

Aziraphale's eyes lit up almost immediately upon seeing it and he snatched if from Crowley's hand. Awestruck, he held the tiny figurine up to his face, cradling it in his hands like a first-born child.

"I forgot I had this", he said softly.

"What is it?", asked Crowley. "Is that ivory?"

"Yes", said Aziraphale. "It… erm, well, it was a gift. From, um, someone."

He turned beet red.

"Punt?", asked Crowley, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. "I thought it looked ancient."

Aziraphale mumbled something unintelligible and blushed even deeper. He gently set the bird aside on a bookshelf and gave it a fond look before he turned back to Crowley, who had just retrieved a piece of yellowed, creased paper and was unfolding it carefully.

"What else is in there? Dear me, I can't remember the last time I even looked in the-…", said Aziraphale, stuttering to a halt when he saw Crowley's face.

Concerned, he tried to look at the crumpled sheet the demon was holding in his clenched fists. Crowley handed it to him mechanically.

It read: ' _Ahnentafel zum Nachweis arischer Abstammung für 5 Generationen_ ' *

"Oh."

Gingerly, the angel handed it back and sat down next to Crowley, who had fallen eerily quiet. After a moment's hesitation he put an arm around the other's shoulders. Crowley did not shrug it off. Neither of them felt the need to say anything. They remained like this for a long time, each lost in their own thoughts. Sitting in silent remembrance of a history they both desperately wanted to forget.

 

####

 

_"I can't do this anymore, angel", said Crowley._

_He attempted to open the half-empty bottle of schnapps on the table, but his hands were shaking too much._

_Aziraphale took it from him and poured two small glasses. He sighed deeply and gave one to Crowley._

_"I know, my dear, but we don't have a choice. This war can't go on forever", he said._

_Crowley gratefully took the proffered alcohol and knocked it back. When he set the glass down it had refilled before its bottom touched the table._

_"No, but if it goes on for much longer the only reason it stops will be because there's no one left. I just… You haven't seen the things I've seen, angel."_

_"I've seen enough", said Aziraphale quietly. "And what I haven't seen you've told me."_

_He took Crowley's hand and squeezed it lightly._

_"We can't let it stop us."_

_Crowley made a sound somewhere between a snort and a sob._

_"Stop us from what? You're hardly allowed to do anything."_

_"Neither are you", said Aziraphale. "Even less so than I am, if I may point this out, and yet you_ have _done things. Your inside knowledge has proven invaluable, my dear. Without your help none of them would have made it."_

_The angel took the remaining shot glass and drained it, slower than Crowley, but leaving it just as empty. Crowley moved his around nervously, watching the clear liquid slosh around in it. He raised it to his mouth again, the rim touching his lips, but he did not drink just yet._

_"Yeah, I know. I just couldn't take it", he murmured. "I… I tempt people, I don't…This isn't…"_

_His voice faltered._

_"I know", said Aziraphale gently. Silence fell, and they both sought solace in the schnapps' comfortable drowsiness enveloping them, their glasses refilling time and again. Crowley pulled the red armband off his left arm and mindlessly turned it around in his hands over and over, as if staring at it would make it go away._

_"How are they?", he asked eventually, his eyes flitting to the cupboard behind Aziraphale. They had not found anything when the house had been searched last week. They never did when Crowley was with them and they never would._

_"As well as can be expected under the circumstances", said Aziraphale soberly. "Did you find anything?"_

_Crowley shook his head._

_"No, nothing. I've tried other camps, too, but couldn't find anything either."_

_"Maybe they got away."_

_"Yeah. Maybe."_

_Once more, Crowley drank. He did not mention how many of them had never even been registered._

 

####

 

Crowley took a deep breath, then exhaled sharply. He held the paper up in front of him with an air of sudden, calm resolve. He glared at it. The paper burst into flames.

"Crowley!", gasped Aziraphale, "That was a historical doc-…"

But Crowley cut him off.

"No", he said bitterly. "No, it wasn't. It was a lie."

Crimson light reflected in his sunglasses, dancing and flickering, and the angel closed his mouth. He looked at the wisps of smoke rising from the crackling, smoldering sheet of paper in Crowley's hand, his lips pressed tightly together. It blazed up.

In silence they watched the heat slowly consume the document, turning words and letters to ash one by one, singing Crowley's fingertips in the process. Watched, as the fire destroyed all the ink and paper and lies, false signatures and falser yet identities; worthless fragments of a life long gone.

Their memories would never be burned. Would not turn to ash, not ever, because it was what they were made of already.

' _Anton Krahe, geb. 06.06.1906_ ' was the last line to go.

 

* * *

 

 

1 [click to return] If you defined 'furnishing' as 'finding space for all the books'.

2 [click to return] Aziraphale had acquired quite a lot of those in the twenty-odd years between the botched apocalypse and the time they decided to get some peace and quiet and buy a cottage in the South Downs, which was now. Crowley privately thought it was amazing, really, how many ugly souvenirs one angel could amass in a measly two decades of travelling.

3 [click to return] Although somehow it still managed to _look_ dusty.

 

* [click to return] Genealogy table for proof of Aryan ancestry for 5 generations.


End file.
